Read Online Chase the Dawn by Jane Feather - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Feather
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the pie toward the young man. “If Lincoln fails to hold Charleston, General Washington will send reinforcements from the North. And we’ll be ready to welcome them with an entire armory and a band of Patriot soldiers well trained in the underbelly of this war.” A smile lit his eyes, and he helped himself to the rum bottle. “Every weapon we take, my friends, is one less for the Tories.”
“And every dead sentry, one less to fight,” someone growled.
“True enough,” Ben said without expression. He looked at the grandfather clock and pushed back his chair. He’d been away from the cabin for three hours, and it would take him an hour to return, on foot and by way of the little-known trails. “Rendezvous in the usual place, the first night of the new moon.” He waited until they had all gone, except Joshua, whose house it was. Farmers, gentlemen, laborers—a diverse group with a shared aim. They would drive the British occupation from American soil and fulfill the goal of independence asserted with such magnificence three years earlier. Benedict Clare would help them, avenging his own wrongs and those of his friends as he fought the same enemy he had fought in his homeland, fighting for thesame cause. He had lost once, but he would not do so again. Next time, he would die first.
With a gesture of farewell to his monosyllabic host, he slipped out into the July afternoon. The farm was isolated, set well back from the river and the main thoroughfares on land. It could be approached from any number of directions and, as such, provided the ideal meeting place for men who did not wish to be seen traveling in one another’s company. Benedict made for the trees, seemingly uncharted to the ignorant eye, but for one who knew them they were a positive maze of intersecting trails easy enough for the educated eye to read.
He reached the clearing an hour later. The three Indians sitting around the stone fireplace hailed him cheerfully. Benedict returned the greeting in correct form before asking where the girl was.
“She crawled off into the woods,” one of them said easily. “But we came to see you, Ben, not her.”
“When did she go off into the woods?” he asked, apprehension prickling his scalp.
“When we arrived.” The Indian looked up at the sun. “Some three hours past.”
“Death and damnation!” Ben swore. “Why did you not stop her?”
“Came to see you, not her,” the other repeated calmly. “Heard you’d got a woman, though.” He offered a serene smile of congratulation that was not returned.
“Which direction did she take?”
“Over yonder. Went through the window at back.” His informant gestured behind the cabin. Then a rather surprising thought seemed to strike him. “You want to find her? It shouldn’t be difficult—not if she doesn’t know the woods.”
It was not an offer to be refused. These men would see tracks invisible to Benedict, and the woods were vast. What on earth had possessed her to break her word? There was nothing remotely alarming about his three visitors, who would have arrived perfectly peaceably … unless you were an aristocratic planter’s sheltered daughter whose head had been stuffed with the old stories of savage massacres. It would not need many promptings of a rich imagination to send such a one scuttling in panic. Understanding reduced his anger to exasperation, but it could do nothing to allay his fears for her—an inexperienced baby loose in the woods with only half her memory.
His companions read answer in his expression and loped off into the trees at the rear of the house. Benedict stood irresolute. It was a waste of time and effort to join them; it was not as if he could be of any assistance. And she might find her own way back. In which case it would be better if he was here.
Bryony, in fact, had long ago given up all hope of ever being able to find her way back. The world consisted of trees—monumental, gnarled oaks that blocked the
“And every dead sentry, one less to fight,” someone growled.
“True enough,” Ben said without expression. He looked at the grandfather clock and pushed back his chair. He’d been away from the cabin for three hours, and it would take him an hour to return, on foot and by way of the little-known trails. “Rendezvous in the usual place, the first night of the new moon.” He waited until they had all gone, except Joshua, whose house it was. Farmers, gentlemen, laborers—a diverse group with a shared aim. They would drive the British occupation from American soil and fulfill the goal of independence asserted with such magnificence three years earlier. Benedict Clare would help them, avenging his own wrongs and those of his friends as he fought the same enemy he had fought in his homeland, fighting for thesame cause. He had lost once, but he would not do so again. Next time, he would die first.
With a gesture of farewell to his monosyllabic host, he slipped out into the July afternoon. The farm was isolated, set well back from the river and the main thoroughfares on land. It could be approached from any number of directions and, as such, provided the ideal meeting place for men who did not wish to be seen traveling in one another’s company. Benedict made for the trees, seemingly uncharted to the ignorant eye, but for one who knew them they were a positive maze of intersecting trails easy enough for the educated eye to read.
He reached the clearing an hour later. The three Indians sitting around the stone fireplace hailed him cheerfully. Benedict returned the greeting in correct form before asking where the girl was.
“She crawled off into the woods,” one of them said easily. “But we came to see you, Ben, not her.”
“When did she go off into the woods?” he asked, apprehension prickling his scalp.
“When we arrived.” The Indian looked up at the sun. “Some three hours past.”
“Death and damnation!” Ben swore. “Why did you not stop her?”
“Came to see you, not her,” the other repeated calmly. “Heard you’d got a woman, though.” He offered a serene smile of congratulation that was not returned.
“Which direction did she take?”
“Over yonder. Went through the window at back.” His informant gestured behind the cabin. Then a rather surprising thought seemed to strike him. “You want to find her? It shouldn’t be difficult—not if she doesn’t know the woods.”
It was not an offer to be refused. These men would see tracks invisible to Benedict, and the woods were vast. What on earth had possessed her to break her word? There was nothing remotely alarming about his three visitors, who would have arrived perfectly peaceably … unless you were an aristocratic planter’s sheltered daughter whose head had been stuffed with the old stories of savage massacres. It would not need many promptings of a rich imagination to send such a one scuttling in panic. Understanding reduced his anger to exasperation, but it could do nothing to allay his fears for her—an inexperienced baby loose in the woods with only half her memory.
His companions read answer in his expression and loped off into the trees at the rear of the house. Benedict stood irresolute. It was a waste of time and effort to join them; it was not as if he could be of any assistance. And she might find her own way back. In which case it would be better if he was here.
Bryony, in fact, had long ago given up all hope of ever being able to find her way back. The world consisted of trees—monumental, gnarled oaks that blocked the
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